


Missing Pages

by Semiserial



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semiserial/pseuds/Semiserial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of conversations and events that happen along side the events of inquisition and beyond. they happen mostly in order and will be updated as time goes on. :) Hope you like. Pairings will be added as the story continues but will mainly focus on lavellen and cullen. I've tailored the dalish with a more celtic/native vibe. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Pages

Chapter 1  
His hands felt like ice. I tried to pry my fingers from his, tried to apply pressure to the wound in his side, but he wouldn’t let go. The grip of dying men.   
“Please”  
His voice was barely audible over the sounds of screaming, the medical tent nearly full to bursting. For not the first time I began to wonder when this had become my life. Looking into the eyes of the dead and dying and not being able to do a damn thing about it. Gently I smiled at the soldier, tried to reassure the young man but it didn’t reach my eyes. A liars smile. I pushed harder on the wound with the one hand reaching into that part of myself that touched the fade, as if by will alone I could make the mark do anything I wanted. I was no healer, by my understanding the mark shouldn’t even work for me so maybe…maybe. It flickered and for a moment I was hopeful. It did nothing. The blood drippled down my armour, pooling at my knees. A bitter reminder of what was lost. What I had lost  
“Please”, again he spoke just barely a whisper, “tell me…did he send you?” His eyes bored into mine seeking answers I didn’t have. His eyes, they were blue, pale blue like the sky, but they should too much white around the edges. I struggled for a name. Anything. I must have seen him. Around the Tavern perhaps? A fleeting glimpse? His skin was pale. Even despite the blood loss he would have been pale. The kind of pale one gets when they don’t spend enough time outside. A scholar perhaps? His hair looked brown, matted with blood. I tried to picture him whole; the pale skin glowing under sunlight, blue eyes sharp and clear. I pictures him smiling, his hair a dark blonde glinting gold with the breach.   
I felt his hand spasm. He squeezed so tightly I couldn’t stop the hiss of pain that escaped my lips.  
“Did. He. Send. You?” the solider spat the words out, one by one. A plea of the desperate, a plea I knew all too well. Slowly, deliberately I drew in a breath and lied. I stared in the face of the solider, dying in my arms and quietly whispered, “Yes”, and then he was gone.  
Gently I drew his arms across his chest. He looked so small on the makeshift cot. He made 37. 37 deaths witnessed since my supposed return from the beyond. 37 men and women, who would never get to go home, never get to hold their loved ones again, never laugh or cry. I gazed sadly at the face of death. There was nothing peaceful in it. Only tears and sweat and pain. Carefully I pressed my hand to the wound on his side, dipping my fingers in his blood. It was still warm. Reverently I brought my bloodied finger tips to my lips and kissed his sacrifice.   
“Falon’Din, ma ghilana” (May Falon’Din Guide You) the prayer came easily as I anointed each eyelid, “Ar lasa mala revas” ( You are Now Free )before closing them.   
Tiredly I looked up from the death at my feet. Watched as Dorian flicked open another bottle of lyrium. How many was that now? I couldn’t remember. His shaking body stilled as the lyrium did its work. Still if I looked, I could see the faint sheen of sweat glisten under the candlelight, his fingers still tremor. His healing spells becoming less and less effective with each new wounded solider. He caught my eye and gestured to the boy at my feet. I shook my head. We stood for a moment just looking at each other. We who had survived Haven, we who had sealed the breach did we pay the price now? Was this what winning was? Was this what I had to look forward to? To people I didn’t know dying for a cause I didn’t believe in? I felt the pressure of tears before the heat. A well of pain that sprung up from my heart so suddenly I nearly broke. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, relishing in the pain it brought. Pain was good. Pain was useful; I felt the adrenalin course through me. The tears receded replaced by the dull throbbing in my mouth. I broke Dorian’s gaze first, scanning the bodies at my feet. A form stirred not two beds from where I stood and I moved to it like a drowning man at sea. Gently I knelt beside the cot and took the woman’s hand in my own. It felt calloused but warm and it returned my grip tightly. Wordlessly I prayed to silent gods and begged them not to make it 38.   
They did not listen. I did not know how long I had stayed in the medical tent; I had lost count of the dead. I had felt Dorian leave, a gentle hand on my shoulder before he stumbled past exhausted. Vivienne had taken his place. Even her calm resolve had cracked upon seeing the carnage and I couldn’t help the smile that graced my face at the thought. The brave circle mage, the true believer in Chantry law, for once being forced to witness the results. The phrase felt bitter, even in my own mind. I pressed the collinging cloth gently on the boy at my feet. He moaned softly. Ginerly, I did not want to wake the boy, I searched his body for wounds. A weight on my shoulder startled me out of my search. It wasn’t so much thought as muscle memory that propelled me forwards. I grabbed the hand and pulled, kicking back with my left leg. Muscles screamed at me for the movement. To slow. I caught the assailant in the shin and crouched even lower to the ground, throwing off their centre of gravity. I felt more then heard my blows connect as they tumbled over my head onto the floor in front of me. I caught a glimpse of blond hair and reached for it, yanking hard. Forcing my knee into back head exposing the neck, I unsheathed the blade.  
“He-Herald!” Vivienne’s strangled cry rang out. It echoed in my mind softly as if down a tunnel. It was enough to slow the blow. Instead of slitting throat I let the blade rest on the neck. My knee wavered slightly, muscles protesting under the strain of the movement. How long had it been since I’d slept? I saw more than felt my arm tremor the blade dancing dangerously close to the prone mans’ throat. I felt the man wheeze on my knee, his breath coming back slowly but surely. I chewed over my options. Either slit his throat now or release the man. A sharp throb arced over my shoulders, I couldn’t keep this positon for much longer. Sighing heavily I withdrew my hand from the head, placing the blade back in the sheath at my back. The motion caused bright starburst of pain to erupt from my wrist and the blade fell into its sheath with a harsh click. Bracing myself on the bed next to me I hoisted myself up, bones hissing and popping hating the movement. I held a hand out to the figure an apology forming on my lips. Whether my help was refused or the man did not see it I didn’t care to know. My hand fell limply back to my side.   
“I-“ I began but the apology died in the face of the blazing eyes of Commander Cullen. His cheeks were flushed but whether that was the cold or embarrassment at being thrown on the floor I could not tell. A gloved hand ran through his blond waves gingerly and I winced. Hair pulling is surely below Templars, right? Nope, no hair pulling, shoving, or name calling in barracks. His eyes swept over my face, and I felt the heat rise up in my cheeks. It felt like an inspection. Armour shiny, no. Hair cut short, no. Standing at attention, oh gods no.   
“I didn’t know it was you”, I closed my eyes not wanting to fail at a second apology, “the training just took over and…are…are you alright?” The words tumbled out; a mix of concern and consternation. Great.  
“I wanted a word. Regarding our position here” His voice was curt, very much the commander used to giving orders. He left without awaiting a reply and expected me to follow; and far too tired to argue I did.  
The commander marched out, his boots crunching softly on the snowy ground. I trotted after him, unable to match the stride of the much larger man. Cautiously I hazarded a glance at the commander. The stubble on his chin had grown unchecked. The darkening blond of the short beard made his skin seem even darker. The honey gold of his eyes stood out in sharp contrast to the dark circles under them. His lips were set in a grim line, harkening bad news. We marched through the camp in silence, and I tried to ignore the whispers of passersby. I was very good at ignoring ‘knife-ear’ and ‘rabbit’ or my personal favourite ‘savage’…but words like ‘herald’, ‘annointed’’chosen’, those were the real problems. I closed my eyes against the sound and tried to focus on walking. As if I concentrated hard enough maybe I’d wake up and this would all be some horrible nightmare brought on by too much wine. Each step felt like I was moving through water. A river of blood, of faith, of death rising up all around me. Clutching at me, drowning me. I barely noticed our surroundings now, caught up in a nightmare of my own making.   
“Herald?” His voice broke softly through my thoughts, swimming to the surface. I turned to face the man fully. Cullen gasped. A sharp intake of breath that again had the heat rising up in my cheeks. What a sight I must be for the chantry boy. How savage should the Dalish look with her tattoos and blood soaked clothes. Bitterly I ran a finger through my hair only to have my fingers snag on the bits of bone and dried blood from the attack. Oh yes quite the savage tonight.  
“Freya.” I corrected, “you wanted something?”  
“We…We need to move on. I know Solas spoke to you earlier regarding a destination.” His words were less a question and more of a statement. I had directed Solas to speak with Cullen, Leliana and Josephine regarding the orb. I rubbed at my wrist soothing the sudden ache. My mind wandering back to Haven. Back to where that creature had dangled me so casually. I had twisted and fought but in the end he had crushed my wrist before throwing me to the ground. Snapped it as easily as one would snap a twig beneath their heel. I shivered and it had nothing to do with chilly night air.  
“We aren’t ready to move, too many people need healing”   
“Leliana’s scouts reported red Templar activity…if we stay any longer…” Cullen let the sentence trail off.  
“But…but they’ll die?!?”  
“I know” Cullen’s voice sounded resigned, defeated and I railed against it.  
“You know?!? Well then there’s your answer, we stay.” I winced at the desperation in my voice but forced myself to meet the commander’s gaze. His eyes were kind, full of pity and I looked away. I hated him then. I hated all of them. Hated them for being Andrastrian, for forcing me to make this decision, for propping me up as some sort of messenger for a woman that had butchered my people, but most importantly I hated him because he was right. I licked my lips and tasted the blood of the dead. The blood of mages and Templars alike, of chantry sisters and pilgrims, of adults and children. The taste of their sacrifice only spurred my anger onwards. I gathered some of the blood on my fingertips angrily, scrapping at my lips with such ferocity I sliced them open. My own blood mingled with the dead on my fingers as I brought them to my lips, “Falon’Din, ma ghilana. Ar lasa mala revas.”  
Silence reigned between us, broken only by the soft whistling of the wind as it wound its way through the mountains. I closed my eyes and listened to its call, finding myself lost in the soft sounds of the night. It was too cold for insects but I could hear the gentle twitting of winter birds rousing in the trees above. My head tilted of its own accord, my pointed ears turning to the sound of hooves in snow, the soft pattering of elven feet intermixed with the dull thuds of the humans. The sharp caws of Leliana’s crows echoed across the valley softly to me and I tried to count the caws.   
“One for sorrow, Two for mirth, Three for Death…and Four..for” the nursery rhyme came to me unbidden.   
“Hera--Freeah?” Cullen coughed, turning to the sound of my voice sharply. The elven name clumsy on his lips “What was that move you used earlier? I’ve been trained against mages, don’t you usually use magic when defending?”  
I hazarded a glance at the commander before returning my gaze to the forest. It was easy to forget that he had been a Templar once, trained to fight mages; trained to fight me. Softly I smiled at the strangeness of it all, of humans in general.  
“Have your mages never attacked physically?” a smile tugged at my lips, “No I suppose they wouldn’t.” Pausing I turned back to the commander. He stood a few feet in front of me and I closed the distance quickly. I reached for the knife at my back and pulled it out slowly holding it out for Cullen to see. “This is a Mi’adahl. Do you know what that is?”   
“No..although-“, he reached for the blade, weighing it in his hands before returning it, “I think I’ve seen a similar blade before, in Kinloch Hold. One of the Tranquil was using it to gather herbs. Elf root I think. He called it an Athame.”  
I couldn’t stop the derisive snort at hearing the human word. Why did they have to make their own words for everything? Ignoring Cullen’s glare I continued, “Yes. The Mi’adahl is usually used to gather herbs. However it is still a blade commander. “ Repeating the commanders action I weighed the blade in my good hand, tossing it up before grabbing the hilt and bringing it to my shoulder blade out. “Magic is useful but it can be subverted. Blades can be deflected. Arrows do not need bows to be dangerous. I am-I was…ah…this..” carefully I put the blade away and let the sentence drift. Slowly I turned back to the camp, a sigh building in my chest. I refused to look at Cullen. I didn't want to see the pity there as the mantle of 'Andraste's Harald' settled, "One more day and then we will leave...".   
"As you wish, Herald"   
I had to fight the urge to argue. To correct him. To deny at least one last time, but the words stilled in my throat. I had already made my choice and there was no going back now.


End file.
